


downpour

by catbrains



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Asylum, American Horror Story: Freak Show
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cutting, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, also i spent a frankly absurd amount of time researching the '60s for this fic, but what can ya do, jimmy is a good boyfriend, kit is very broken, there's probably still inaccuracies, things are bad but they love each other a whole lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 09:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17659955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catbrains/pseuds/catbrains
Summary: Jimmy is used to waking up to Kit's nightmares by now.Sometimes they're loud, announced by terrified screams or heart-wrenching sobs.  Sometimes they're silent, announced only by the absence of warmth in bed next to him after Kit sneaks away to suffer on his own.It's unpredictable, but it's still a routine.Until, one night, Jimmy finds Kit in the bathroom.





	downpour

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to my boyfriend's sweet lovely mother for patiently providing me with every detail about the '60s that i pestered her for for this fic  
> and thank you to my boyfriend, who gave me the following line of advice after i lamented to him that i was making kit too much of a sensitive bitch:  
> "make kit more of a sensitive bitch"
> 
> also shoutout to ahs_evans_fics, because their adorable fics got me somehow sucked into this pairing
> 
> will i ever stop producing unnecessarily long fics for ships that no one ships? the answer is no
> 
> (not beta read, please let me know if there are any mistakes!)

Jimmy is used to waking up to Kit’s nightmares by now. Sometimes he’ll snap awake to blood-curdling screams and have to shake Kit awake, sometimes he’ll be pulled towards consciousness by heart-wrenching sobs, and sometimes he’ll open his eyes to nothing but a very particular tense, deathly silence and an empty bed.  
Tonight - this morning? - he isn't entirely sure what is wrong at first. The small house is silent and dark, the only sound being the muffled noises of nighttime through the old rickety windows that don't quite fit in their panes, the gentle sound of heavy rainfall. Jimmy thinks that maybe he just woke up for no reason, but then he puts his hand out to find the warmth of Kit’s body and is met with nothing but cold, crumpled sheets.

“Ah, shit.”

The nights Kit manages not to wake Jimmy are always the worst. Jimmy knows that Kit hates to wake him at all, and will always work himself up into even more of a mess upon realising that he’s disturbed and distressed his love with his pain, but Jimmy never minds being woken up. He _wants_ to be woken up, wants to be able to hold and soothe Kit for however long it takes for him to calm down, and it hurts him more than anything to find his lover sat wherever on nights like these, always deathly pale and deathly quiet, his hands trembling and his eyes glassy and distant.   
It makes Jimmy feel helpless in a way that is all too familiar, but he likes to think he’s matured a bit by now.  
He’ll still do what he can. He’ll never let himself get sucked back into that darkness of pathetic self-destruction.

Letting out a soft breath, he heaves himself into a sitting position and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as his toes make contact with the freezing cold hardwood. He’s dressed in nothing but a pair of flannel pyjama trousers and a tank top, only making the frigid winter air feel impossibly more brutal, but he can remember Kit crawling into bed wearing just his underwear and one of Jimmy’s undershirts, and - judging by the fact that his pale blue flannel robe is still hanging on the back of the door - he's not wearing anything more now. That makes it considerably harder for Jimmy to feel all too sorry for himself.  
“Oh, baby,” he sighs, running a hand down his face as he stands and walks to the door. He grabs Kit’s robe and bundles it in his arms before opening the door to the hallway with a painfully loud creak.

Everything is so silent. Had Kit gone outside?  
No, he wouldn't have. Going outside at night is one of the many things that Kit seems to have trauma associated with - he’d once cried for hours after Jimmy had stepped outside to retrieve some smouldering projectile that had probably been intended to set their house on fire but had instead just landed on the wet lawn and put itself out. At first, Jimmy had thought Kit was upset about receiving yet another threat - or, more accurately, another failed attempt at legitimate harm - but then Kit had pulled him into his arms once he was back inside and adamantly refused to let go, muttering hoarsely about monsters and bright lights and how he didn't want Jimmy to get hurt, didn't want Jimmy to be stolen away from him.

Jimmy hadn't understood then, and he still kind of doesn't now, despite the many stories that Kit has told explaining the things he had gone through, every detail that he can remember or bear to get through before he collapses in on himself like he does every time.   
Jimmy doesn't really _have_ to understand, though. He doesn't even have to know everything that had been done to Kit, every brutal punishment or daily beating or general mistreatment that he had suffered in prison and at Briarcliff. He’ll support Kit no matter what - right now the same as all the time, whether his lover is stood staring down at that particular spot on the living room floor and weeping or gazing up at the stars through one of the windows and hyperventilating to the brink of losing consciousness.  
That was the promise he’d made a long time ago, before Kit had allowed him to get even one step closer than the furthest distance.   
It's a promise he intends to keep.

“Kit?” he calls as he walks, looking around the house for any signs of life. All the lights are off, the doors closed. No distant sound of a tea kettle boiling or the soft clinking of a mug being stirred. No muffled crying or the rough, repetitive sound of something being hit, whether that sound is Kit punching a wall until his knuckles bleed or him hitting his head against something like he does on the really, really bad days.  
Those days are terrifying, but Jimmy can't decide if this silence is more so.  
“Kit. Where are you, darlin’? Are you hiding?”

Slowly but surely, he can feel panic start to curl within him as the silence stretches with no sign of his lover.   
The living room is empty, as is the kitchen, and there is no sign that Kit has been in either of them despite those being the two most common locations for him to rush to when he’s panicked, excluding Jimmy’s arms.   
“Kit?”  
Jimmy goes back upstairs, considerably more rushed than he was a few moments ago. He walks back into the bedroom, checks under the bed and in the wardrobe just in case Kit had wanted a real hiding spot to make himself feel safe. Nothing.   
He checks the windowsill where Kit likes to sit and read. Nothing.  
The spare bedroom. Nothing.

Every single room in the house is empty, no signs of life, nothing out of place. As Jimmy’s desperation grows, he begins to check the windows and doors to see if there are any signs of a break in, suddenly terrified of the idea that someone finally got brave.  
The idea of someone breaking into their home, stealing Kit away with the intention to harm or kill him, makes Jimmy feel dizzy and very, very sick. Suddenly, his mind provides him with the image of Kit’s body, pale and bloody and broken, being dumped on the lawn like Meep’s body had been dumped in front of the Freak Show. His boy - his precious, precious boy - tortured and killed and then tossed back to him like a dead dog.  
His head swirls and so does his stomach, and he’s so sure that he’s going to vomit that his attention swings to the bathroom door, and it is only then that he sees it - the thin strip of pale light beneath the door, the only light that's on in the entire house that Jimmy hadn't turned on himself.

He hadn’t checked the bathroom. Purely because Kit is never in the bathroom - bathrooms scare him like hospitals and doctors’ offices do, like anything that makes him feel trapped or reminds him of Briarcliff does. Kit hates the bathroom, no matter how Jimmy had tried to make it entirely unlike Kit’s descriptions of the cells and bathrooms at the asylum, tried to make it as colourful and homely as he could with their very limited budget and even more limited space.  
It's full of soft things and little reminders of home, little trinkets and knickknacks and framed paintings of the scenery around the places they’d both grown up, gifted by friends. Jimmy’s efforts were enough to grant Kit enough comfort to bathe in there alone, but he still won't spend more time in there than necessary.

It doesn't make much sense that he would be in there now, but Jimmy doesn't care. The desperation for that relief is all-consuming, the desperation to know that Kit is safe, but his pace is still somehow slow as he makes his way towards the closed door, his grip tightening on the soft flannel robe in his arms.  
He realises when he’s stood outside of the door that he’s afraid. The image of Kit’s dead body is still at the front of his mind, torturing him with the possibility.  
“Kit?” he calls out gently. No response. His heart quickens its pace, thumping against his ribs. “I’m coming in, baby.”

He takes the doorknob in hand and turns it. The door creaks open, and relief crashes over him like warm water when he’s not met with a body, but rather the sight of Kit’s narrow back - the familiar bumps of his spine beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt, the pale white of the back of his neck and the way his hair curls so sweetly against it. He’s stood hunched over the sink, tense and trembling and seemingly entirely unaware of Jimmy’s presence, and Jimmy’s relief falters into another burst of anxiety.  
“Kit,” he says, so soft it's almost a whisper, but suddenly Kit flinches like he’d screamed it. His shoulders jolt, his head whips around, and there's the quiet sound of something being dropped into the sink, but Jimmy is distracted by Kit’s doe eyes full of tears and terror.

“Jimmy,” Kit whispers, like they haven't seen each other in years, and then he sobs. It's a loud, heart wrenching sound, like something awful has happened or like he’s falling apart from the inside out. He looks so lost, and while he normally would have thrown himself into Jimmy’s arms by now no matter what, right now he’s still stood half-facing the sink, his hands seemingly gripping onto the porcelain. “Ji-Jimmy. No. No, you can't...You have to go. You can't...can’t…”  
“Shh,” Jimmy soothes quickly, taking a slow step into the bathroom. “It's okay, doll. I’m here, everything’s okay. You know where you are?”  
Kit sobs again, then breathes in a desperate-sounding wheeze, but he nods. “I know. I--I know.”  
A few long moments of silence pass. Jimmy isn't sure what to do, isn't sure whether he should just scoop Kit up and hold him or if he should give him some space, but before he can say or do anything, Kit breaks.

“I’m sorry!” he sobs, so desperate it's almost a wail. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn't mean to. Couldn't--couldn't make it stop. I tried. I...I tried, Jimmy. I’m...I…”  
Jimmy, startled, steps forward again despite how Kit seems to be desperate to get away from him. He's not entirely sure what he's intending on doing, whether he’s going to wrap his arms around Kit or just turn him around gently so that he can see his face, but he stops completely when he sees it.   
The clean white porcelain of the sink, splattered with the harsh red of blood.   
Jimmy’s first thought, absurdly, is that Kit has killed someone. That, however, he can deal with. He’ll help his lover hide a body, no questions asked.  
But then he sees the razor blade. And then he sees Kit’s wrist.  
And, again, he is entirely sure for a moment that he’s going to throw up.

“Oh, God,” he whispers, and then his hand is covering his mouth and tears are burning in his eyes. “Oh, baby. Oh, _Kit_.”  
Kit wails. His knees buckle and he tumbles to the ground, only managing by some miracle to not hit his head against the sink. He curls up in the corner, his back pressed up against the wall and his knees pulled up to his chest. He wraps his arms around himself then, and his bleeding wrist smears red over his pale skin.  
Jimmy just stares for a moment and listens to him cry, frozen. His eyes travel to the sink again, to the blood splatters and the shallow pool of the liquid that's gathered around the closed plug hole, and to the dropped razor blade that's about half-submerged.  
It's one of Jimmy’s - out of a pack he’d bought the other day and put away in the medicine cabinet without even thinking about it.   
Logically, he couldn't have known, couldn't have possibly guessed that Kit would do this, but that doesn't stop guilt from swallowing him.

Kit could have died.   
He could’ve cut a little deeper a little earlier, or Jimmy could have spent a little too long trying to find him, and he’d be dead. Dead on the floor of their homely little bathroom, surrounded by a pool of blood.  
Jimmy coughs his way through a gag, his mind and stomach swirling. He feels like he's going to pass out, but then his eyes once again land on Kit.  
Kit, who’s still bleeding, still sobbing.  
Who, reasonably, has a lot more reason to be throwing up and passing out than Jimmy does.  
Now, Jimmy knows that throwing his own feelings aside for the sake of others is not good. He knows that, at some point, they're going to have to talk about this, and talk about it _properly_. But he also knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Kit needs him right now, and for that reason he has to be brave. He has to be strong and take charge of this situation and gather all of these broken pieces together to make things at least a little bit more okay before the morning comes.

And so, trembling, he places Kit’s robe down on the lid of the closed toilet and picks up a hand towel from beside the sink. He makes sure his movements are slow and as non-menacing as possible, because Kit is rocking the way he does when he’s expecting a beating, and then kneels down next to his boyfriend.  
“Hey, Kitten,” he says softly, reaching out slowly and very gently rubbing his hand over the back of Kit’s injured, blood-covered wrist. Kit flinches. “Shh, shh. Just breathe for me, alright? It's okay. I promise it's okay. We’re gonna get you cleaned up. Can I see your wrist?”  
Kit sobs and shakes his head, curling up tighter.  
“Hey, no, no. I’m not mad. Okay? I--I swear. I’m not angry with you. I wanna try and make this better, Kit. God, I...You really scared me.”

“I’m _sorry_.”  
The words are so soft, so broken, and Jimmy feels his heart ache. He shifts so that he’s sitting down by Kit’s side, not close enough to be properly touching but close enough that Kit can surely feel him there.  
“You don't have to be. You don't have to worry about anything like that right now. We...we can talk properly about this when you're ready to. Right now, I just wanna stop the bleeding and then bandage you up. Make it all better. You think that's a good plan, baby?”  
More silence passes, interrupted only by the barely audible sound of the faucet dripping, water mixing with blood, and the sound of Kit softly weeping.   
Jimmy finds himself thinking of his mother. He remembers that same helplessness, that horrible sinking feeling with every single passing day until he finally lost her in that awful jolt that no number of years could have ever prepared him for, and the thought of losing Kit scares him more than anything he’s ever thought about in his life, whether it's in the form of him finding a body or in the form of his lover’s mind slipping away into a darkness that he cannot possibly hope to fight away.

He's so close to breaking. So close to whispering ‘ _please_ ’ like a child, like he's begging Kit or maybe begging whatever God might be watching over them despite the deeply difficult relationship that Kit has with that subject too, but then he hears the soft sound of shuffling and Kit is crawling into his arms, nestling himself in Jimmy’s lap and sobbing with his face hidden against the crook of his neck like it’s the only safe place in the world.  
Jimmy, trembling, wraps his arms around his lover and holds him.

Kit feels so small like this - so fragile and so tiny against Jimmy’s frame, bulked up from a lifetime of casual manual labour during each day of life at the Freak Show. Perhaps Kit looked like that at one point - strong and healthy, full of life like any young man - but Jimmy has only known him post-Briarcliff. He has only known deep scars and jutting bones, blue-tinged skin and dark circles.  
He has only known vomiting into the toilet because Kit can't keep down any reasonable amount of food anymore, only known waking up every hour of the night because Kit can't close his eyes without being back there, only known debilitating terror of things that Jimmy doesn't even blink at.

But Jimmy adores him.

He adores every single part of Kit - he loves those tentative bits on the surface, that clumsy facade of a man who's seen no more than any other. He loves the bright, beautiful parts of Kit - the kindness and selflessness and the way he laughs when they’re curled up in bed together in the mornings and his voice is all scratchy and hoarse. He loves the deep, dark parts too. Those bits that have been burnt into him through violence and trauma and tragedy. Jimmy would press kisses to every part if he possibly could, but he can't, so he does the next best thing.   
He speaks.

“I love you, you know,” he says, nestling his face oh so gently against the soft mess of Kit’s hair. “I love you so much. No matter how much you might doubt it sometimes, or all the time, I love every single part of you. Even the parts you hate. I love you when we’re sat together eating dinner and I love you when we’re walking around town and you're dragging me into bookstores and around the pots of flowers so that you can look at them all and I love you when we’re in bed together, just the same as I love you when you're waking me up at three in the morning because you feel like you can't breathe and you're so, so scared. Just the same as I love you right now.”  
As Jimmy speaks, soft and soothing like the way his mother used to speak to him when he was young and she was sober, he very gently lifts up Kit’s injured arm and wraps the towel around it. Most of the blood has dried by now, and the cuts are blessedly not deep enough to still be bleeding steadily, but he does his best to soak up whatever might be left.

“I love your voice,” he murmurs. “I love your voice so much. And not just ‘cause you talk so much nicer than all us carny folk.”  
To Jimmy’s surprise, that line earns him a soft sound that's almost a laugh, thick with tears and muffled against his skin as Kit snuggles closer. His face is cold and wet, but his breathing is soft and slow - like it usually is when he’s sleepy and feeling safe.  
He must be exhausted.  
“Your voice feels like home to me. I love it when you talk. I could listen to you talk about anything. But I love it so, so much when you read to me. I still get all emotional when I think about you memorising all those poems my Ma used to read to me right after I told you how happy it used to make me. And how you didn't tell me ‘til that night I was crying ‘cause I missed her, and you just pulled me into your arms and started reciting it just like she used to. I never thought it was possible to love someone as much as I loved you right then. I wanted to marry you.”

Gently, Jimmy pulls the towel away. It's stained with a red that surely won't wash out, but he doesn't mind. They can buy new towels.  
Nothing - no one - could ever replace Kit.  
“I’m gonna get up to get the bandages and antiseptic, alright? Are you okay to sit on your own for a second?”  
Jimmy sits up a little and adjusts Kit in his lap, before he catches sight of Kit’s robe on the toilet.   
“Actually,” he says, then adjusts Kit again so that they can get up at the same time, though Jimmy holds most of Kit’s weight - whether it's entirely necessary or not. He guides his lover towards the closed lid of the toilet and picks his robe up, and then devotes himself to the task of getting Kit into it without hurting him. He’ll still have to roll the sleeve up, but he hopes that the material will be familiar and help warm Kit up a little. His skin is freezing to the touch.

“You're feeling alright, aren't you?” he quickly asks, suddenly feeling anxious again. “You don't feel like you have a fever? Or...like you're gonna faint or something? You must've been in here for ages, you're freezing.”  
Kit smiles very softly and shakes his head, though his eyes are blinking slowly and he sort of looks like he’s about to keel over and collide with Jimmy’s chest.  
“I’m fine,” he assures, looking up at Jimmy and leaning in to press a dry-lipped kiss to the underside of his jaw. “Just tired...Wanna go back to sleep.”  
He falls forward a little more, so that his face is resting in the crook of Jimmy’s neck again. The clinginess is adorable, and certainly something that Jimmy would eagerly adhere to at any other time, but right now he’s got a more pressing task.  
“We can cuddle soon, baby, I promise,” he says warmly. “Just gotta get you cleaned up first. Why don't you sit down?”

Kit nods vaguely and allows Jimmy to manoeuvre him into sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, his robe tucked carefully around him to keep him warm, though the blood-spotted left sleeve is rolled up past his elbow to keep his wounds uncovered.  
Once he’s sure Kit is sat safely and won't fall, Jimmy sets about digging out the iodine and a roll of bandages from the medicine cabinet, very carefully ignoring the broken-open box of razor blades that sits at the front.   
He reminds himself to take them away later, though. He’s never going to let Kit get hurt like this again, even though the idea of keeping things away from Kit like he's a child likely to hurt himself makes him feel guilty. He trusts Kit, and he desperately doesn't want this to become a controlling thing.  
Most of all, though, he doesn't want Kit to have easy access to things like this in these moments when he's hurt and alone and scared and deeply vulnerable to whatever the whims of his demons might be.

“Here,” he says softly, placing the bottle of iodine and the roll of bandages down on the edge of the bathtub. “I’m just gonna disinfect your arm, then I’m gonna bandage it up. That alright?”  
He's half convinced that Kit is tired enough to be relaxed and pliant, but of course he’s met with a whine and an anxious little fidget, like Kit wants to run away but is too scared to. He’s got that guilty look in his eyes again too, and it makes Jimmy’s heart hurt.  
“Hey, no, no, doll. Don't look like that. It's not a punishment.”  
He can't thread his fingers through Kit’s hair the way Kit likes to do with his, can't separate all the stands and brush it through all sweetly, but he pets Kit’s head anyway. He steps closer so that Kit can nuzzle tearfully against his stomach, gazing down at his sweet, broken boy.

“I'm not hurting you because I want to,” he explains, as gently as he can. “I know the medicine hurts, and I know you don't like it, but it's important. I’d hate for you to get an infection when you're already feeling bad.”  
Not to mention, if they ended up having to go to a hospital about this, they’d almost definitely try and send Kit straight to a psych ward, if not skip the middleman and send him straight back to the asylum if they learnt the true extent of his trauma.   
Jimmy will never, ever let that happen, and if the first step in protecting his lover is disinfecting his cuts, then that's just something that'll have to happen.

“C’mon. I’ll just use a wet towel to clean ‘em up a bit first. How ‘bout we start with that?”  
Kit hiccups, pressing his face a little harder against Jimmy’s abs, but he finally nods after seemingly gathering strength from the warmth of his lover’s body.  
“Good boy,” Jimmy murmurs, leaning over and carefully picking the razor blade out of the blood. He drops it immediately into the bin, then pulls out the plug and turns on the hot tap to wash away the nauseating evidence of what Kit had done to himself, watching the way the water makes it swirl pink before disappearing.  
He wishes he could do that to every part of Kit that makes him hurt, but for now he just picks up the bloody towel and holds it under the flow of warm water, letting it soak and then turning the tap off.

“Can I have your wrist, doll?” he asks softly, and only touches it when Kit holds it tentatively out to him. He turns it so that the cuts are facing upwards, and crouches down so that he and Kit are at eye level as he slowly and so, so gently begins to wipe the dried blood away.  
Underneath the mess of blood dried black, there is a collection of vicious slashes too disorganised to be a row, each deep enough to part the skin at their centre a few millimetres, but not enough that they look like they need stitches. They look like they’ll heal just fine in enough time, but Jimmy knows that they’ll leave thick white scars behind.

He’ll kiss them just like he kisses all Kit’s other scars, even the caning scars that make Kit burn with shame.

“There we go,” he says when he’s done, setting the wet and bloodied towel down on the edge of the sink and giving Kit a gentle, soothing smile. “How’re you feeling about letting me get in there with that iodine now?”  
Kit fidgets again and tries to drop his gaze, but Jimmy catches him under the chin and gently tilts his face back up, smiling sympathetically again when Kit meets his eyes.   
“It’s gonna hurt,” Kit whispers, sounding much like a scared child, and Jimmy’s heart aches. It's a little silly, he knows. He used to have hydrogen peroxide poured on his wounds back at the camp, and he stopped crying about that when he was about eight, but Kit is...well, delicate. He’s been through a lot, and rather than hardening him into something brutal it's left him timid and broken and scared of the world.  
Jimmy would never dream of changing him.  
“I know, Kitten,” he says sympathetically. “I’m sorry, but we gotta do it. I promise I’ll give you all the cuddles in the world afterwards. I’ll even skip out on work tomorrow so we can spend the whole day together. I’ll tell ‘em I’m sick and we won't even get out of bed except to cook. You’ve just gotta be good and let me do this. How does that sound?”

For a moment, Kit seems to relax just a little. But then his eyes fall on the bottle of iodine and he starts fidgeting again, and Jimmy recognises the signs of him working himself up before he even lets out the first whimper that tells of his panic.  
“Please,” Kit whispers, tears gathering in his eyes before he screws them shut, his breathing suddenly growing tight. “Plea-please, I don't want it. Please don't hurt me, don't want it, Ji--Jimmy, Jimmy? Please…”  
Jimmy’s heart jolts and he quickly sits up enough to gather Kit into his arms again, lifting him up off the lid of the toilet so that he can sit in Jimmy’s lap on the floor. Guilt churns in his stomach again for pushing too hard when he should've known that it would set Kit off.  
“It's me, Kit,” he says, right in Kit’s ear as he rocks him. “It's Jimmy, you're safe. You're at home, remember? You're safe with me. You know I’d never hurt you on purpose. I won't use the iodine, alright? I won't. I promise I’ll never do anything that you don't want. Just calm down for me, baby, alright? Come back to me.”

Thankfully, Jimmy manages to staunch the meltdown before it comes on in full force. He still holds Kit for as long as it takes, not that he has any concept of how long that is, sat together on the floor of the cold bathroom, where the air is vaguely claustrophobic and still thick with the smell of copper. He waits and makes no indication that he's bored or tired or frustrated, because he isn't, not even a little bit. He waits until the tension bleeds from Kit’s body and he starts whispering the usual litany of apologies that indicate that he’s back, and Jimmy kisses his tear-streaked cheeks and rocks him a little more.  
“It's alright, doll,” he murmurs, his voice soft and gentle and full of love. “It's not your fault.”  
Kit must be so, so exhausted by now, mentally and physically, and that's more than enough explanation for him being this vulnerable. As he finally settles that last little bit, he presses his face to the crook of Jimmy’s neck and yawns in a way that implies that he really is moments from losing his last grips on consciousness.

Jimmy smiles softly down at him.  
“C’mon, baby. I know you're tired. I’m just gonna sit you up on the toilet again and then I’ll sort you out, alright?”  
Kit opens his eyes sleepily and gazes up at Jimmy, a small note of anxiety still swimming in his gaze.  
“No iodine?”  
“None. I promise.”  
Finally, slowly, Kit nods.  
“M’kay.”  
Very, very gently - sort of like he's handling a baby - Jimmy lifts Kit and once again deposits him on the closed lid of the toilet, though this time Kit leans straight away to rest against the wall beside him, seemingly too tired to even support his own weight.  
“Oh, baby…”  
Jimmy smiles somewhat sadly and opens the medicine cabinet again, this time emerging with something considerably less scary - a jar of petroleum jelly. It's not a perfect alternative to something that can legitimately disinfect the wounds, but it will at least protect them - and it won't hurt.

Kit seems to approve of the choice, giving Jimmy a soft smile as he walks over with the jar in hand and holding out his arm without Jimmy having to ask. The cuts look worse now, the skin around them reddened and raised while the cuts themselves have become dark and tacky - the way cuts look in the stage between fresh and scabbing. They look like they're already hurting a lot - the slight tightness to Kit’s face is indicative of that - and Jimmy can only hope that they heal well and heal quickly.  
For now, he crouches down and twists open the jar of Vaseline.  
“Yeah?” he asks before making any move to touch Kit, and waits until Kit whispers a soft ‘yeah’ in response before sets about very, very gently smearing the jelly over the cuts.   
Kit winces with every touch, and Jimmy finds himself resenting his stiff, clumsy hands more and more each time he makes his lover hiss, but Kit seems to quickly pick up on this despite his own discomfort.

“It's not your fault,” he says softly, leaning forwards and biting his lip for a moment as Jimmy’s first finger smooths over a particularly sore area, before he manages to press a kiss to his lover’s forehead. “You're not making it hurt. It just...hurts.”  
Jimmy lets out a soft sigh and nods in understanding. He gets the feeling that Kit isn't just talking about the cuts.  
“I know, baby,” he says, as soothing as he can be. He rests their foreheads together for a few long moments, his non-greasy hand gently stroking the back of Kit’s head. “We’ll get through it, though, alright? All of it. It’ll get better. We’ll work through it all together until it’s so far away that you don't even think about it anymore. Even if we have a million more nights like this. You understand me?”  
Kit lets out a soft, shaky breath, and he doesn't respond but Jimmy can feel him nod, their foreheads still pressed together.

Jimmy opens his eyes then and looks up at him, and he tilts his head just enough to connect their lips.   
The kiss is slow and gentle, not frantic or desperate or tragic. It's the equivalent of a murmured ‘I love you’, and somehow it reminds Jimmy of the way they kiss when they wake up beside each other in the warm glow of the morning.  
It feels unfitting that they're kissing such a way now, with Kit’s cuts still bare and that razor blade sitting at the bottom of the bin just beside them, but it's immensely soothing too.   
They're still them - still just two human beings in love.

Slowly, Jimmy pulls away and presses a quick kiss to Kit’s cold cheek.  
“Come on,” he says. “Let's get you bandaged up. Then we can go to bed.”  
He turns around and retrieves the roll of bandages from the edge of the bathtub, managing to unroll them without assistance, but then arises the challenge of actually getting them around Kit’s wrist. He manages to get the end in place, but then he can't keep it there while he starts looping the fabric around, and he whispers a curse as it tangles and then falls off entirely. He tries again, with the same result, and his patience with himself burns away like the short lit fuse it is.  
“Piece of shit hands,” he hisses, picking up the edge of the bandage and trying a third time, but he’s caught off-guard when Kit’s free hand - so dainty compared to his own - comes up to hold down the edge of the bandage.  
“There you go,” Kit encourages gently, peeking up to smile sweetly at Jimmy. “C’mon. We’ll do it together. Wrap it around, I’ll hold it.”

Jimmy, almost tentatively, does so. It works this time, of course, because Kit is holding it in place, but Jimmy still feels an odd burst of pride, like he’s done something good. He looks up again and Kit smiles at him again, so he loops the bandage around Kit’s thin wrist again until they settle into a rhythm, moving around each other and tugging this way and that to tighten and adjust the bandage, until all of the cuts are covered by a thick, neat layer of white fabric. Kit holds the end down while Jimmy fetches the surgical tape, and then it's taped down and Jimmy...just sort of stares at it for a little while.  
It feels like it'll be easy to forget now - now that the harsh red isn't staring at him, making him think of Kit crawling out of their bed in the middle of the night and doing that to himself, watching himself bleed and then doing it again while Jimmy lay and slept.

He knows he won't forget, though. Maybe he’ll leave it today, since it's already dawn and Kit is so tired that they’ll surely end up in bed until at least noon if they’re gonna get some real sleep. But Jimmy doesn't mind - they can cuddle in bed all day and talk about nothing and have some real gentle sex and cook whatever Kit’s in the mood for. And then maybe tomorrow they’ll curl up together where Kit likes to read and wrap themselves up in blankets and cushions like they usually do when they have to talk about something that hurts, and they’ll sort this is out at least a little bit.  
Hopefully enough for it to never happen again.

“Jimmyyy. Sleep.”  
Jimmy barely has time to pull himself back to reality before Kit is flopping melodramatically into his arms. It's surely an attempt to lighten the mood, and it works, because Jimmy laughs as he scoops his lover up and holds him tightly, rocking him from side to side.  
“Yeah, yeah, doll. We can sleep now. For however long you want, alright?”  
He grunts as he stands, lifting Kit up in his arms as he does so and carrying him bridal style, delighting in the way Kit cries out and then laughs like it's the first time Jimmy’s ever picked him up.  
He reacts the same way every time, which is precisely why Jimmy loves sneaking up behind him and scooping him up, twirling him around until he complains through his laughter that he's dizzy.  
There's no room for anything like that right now, though. Right now, Jimmy just carries his lover across the landing and into the bedroom, where the crumpled sheets and pale dawn sky glittering through the curtains wait for them.

He lays Kit down on his side of the bed with nothing short of reverence after he pulls his robe off and discards it on the floor. Carefully, he tucks the warm, thick blankets around his love before crawling into bed right beside him. Immediately, like they always do, they meet each other in the centre and slot themselves together like puzzle pieces.  
Kit’s skin is still cold to the touch, and Jimmy is very wary of trapping his injured arm anywhere uncomfortable, but they still settle quickly with their legs tangled together and Kit’s face tucked right in the crook of Jimmy’s neck.  
“I love you, Jimmy,” Kit whispers, and Jimmy smiles softly.  
“I love you too,” he says, and then he nuzzles his face into Kit’s soft curls and hums along softly to a rock’n’roll song he’s had stuck in his head all week, until he feels Kit’s soft breathing even out and knows that he’s asleep.

Jimmy feels the tugging desire to follow him. The rain has stopped and the sun is rising properly now, and the soft rays from the window are beginning to slide oh so slowly across the floor, and he wants nothing more than to close his eyes and fall asleep, warm and safe with his lover.  
He won't, though. He’ll stay awake and daydream and watch over Kit like his life depends on it, making sure that he sleeps peacefully and soothing him back to sleep if he doesn't.   
For now, though, Kit seems content tucked safely in Jimmy’s arms, so Jimmy traces clumsy patterns up and down his spine and starts early planning for what they’ll eat for their afternoon breakfast.

Sure, this probably isn't the exact life he’d fantasised about for himself after leaving Elsa’s grasp - it's not the white picket fence and the beautiful wife and the loud laughter of children. It's not _normal_.  
But he was never destined for normal, and he wouldn't trade his life with Kit for the world, even if he’ll find himself staying up like this every single night for the next two weeks, too terrified to sleep lest Kit slip through his fingers and do something like this again.  
Just the same, he’ll also find himself dancing around the kitchen with Kit, laughing loudly and loading pancakes and waffles with too much sugary shit and then eating it for dinner. They’ll sit together and read together and sing along to the radio all loud and off-key, even though Kit knows damn well that Jimmy can carry a tune - he just finds it too funny when he pretends he can't and Jimmy loves making him laugh more than anything.

Even if tomorrow isn't happy - even if tomorrow is as rough, if not rougher, than the time they just spent in the bathroom together, Jimmy is eager to see it through. And he's more content than he’d ever imagined himself being.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! ♡  
> please leave a comment if you enjoyed!


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